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Life hath been kind to me this day;
I was tired - nay, I was listless -
And she sent me a wilted rose.
Chance is strange indeed,
That I should find such a thing
Amongst crude portraits of lust,
Beauty untarnished by time.
I do not know love, but if I do,
I am certain it shall be this:
Despairing, ugly, self-pitying.
Prick love for pricking, ha!
It is thorned, no sooner touched
Than pierces those who dare approach
But to catch a glimpse of its brilliance.
I yearn for those wounds:
They are battle scars, marks of triumph
Against an unwieldy spirit.
Now I can concede I do have
A hungry heart, and when it wakes,
Mountains will not move me.
YOU ARE READING
i tried: poems from a lost soul
PoetryA collection of sophisticated word vomit I puked up when I got bored. Updates whenever. Chapters ordered chronologically by date penned.
